Title: Indiana Jones and the Peril at Delphi Author: Rob MacGregor ONESHOTISWORTHATHOUSANDWORDS ONE SHOT IS WORTH A THOUSAND WORDS

It was twilight as they descended the hills into the outskirts of the capita l. The lights of Athens were blinking on below them. Indy was tired, thirsty, and hungry, but most of all he was anxious to get to the palace. It was the one place he felt they would be safe. If they could get through the front gate.

But Conrad interrupted his thoughts. "Take a look at what's ahead,' he said. Indy grimaced. "Swell. A roadblock."

Nikos leaned forward. "I bet this is where it gets dangerous."

Indy frowned at the impetuous kid. "At least one of the places."

"Look," Conrad said. "Let's reason with them. Well explain that we have important information for the king." There was no time to argue. They were fifty yards short of the roadblock when one of the soldiers pointed. Several others raised their guns. They fired and the winds hield shattered. "I don't think they're open to conversation," Indy said.

"The bravest are surely those who have the

clearest vision of what is before them, glory and danger alike, and yet notwithstanding go out to meet it."

Thucydides

Prologue

Delphi, Greece1922

Indy hung in the darkness like a quarter moon, suspended by a rope that burned into his chest and armpits. He heard shouts above him, but couldn't make out the words. When he dropped his head back, the aperture high above him offered no more light than a twinkling star.

"Dorian!" he yelled. "Send down another torch!"

His voice bounced back and forth against the walls of the crevice; he didn't know if she had heard him or not. He rubbed his cheek against his shoulder and peered down. Blackness was everywhere, an inky veil that disoriented him, dizzied h im. Nausea rolled through him. He squeezed his eyes shut and moved his hands a f

raction of an inch upward on the rope, fearing that in the next second, it was g oing to snap and he'd follow his first torch into the fathomless darkness below him.

There was no space, no time, only the pull of gravity, the suction of the vo id. He couldn't have dangled more than a few minutes, but it seemed he'd been hanging here for hours, waiting for light to redeem him.

"Jones," Dorian shouted.

His name reverberated in the pit. He glanced up and saw a flickering light dancing toward him. The rope that held it coiled and uncoiled, serpentine, its tongue hissing fire. Indy duck ed as the torch darted past his head, then grabbed the rope and snared the end of the torch.

He gripped it, his breath erupting from his chest like hiccups. He peered at the wall in front of him, no longer certain if it was the right wall. Maybe he was too far down. He tugged on his rope twice and Doumas, Dorian's assis tant, lowered him another two feet. Then he was directly opposite the tablet. It jutted out from the stone wall like a tombstone in a graveyard, and was tilted slightly downward.

He pulled a four pronged clamp from his knapsack and pounded it into the wall with a mallet. He was about to place the torch into it when something caught his eye. He held the torch in front of the tablet and leaned forward for a closer look.

He'd been told the inscription would be caked with dirt and that it would have to be cleaned once the tablet was

taken to the surface. But he was staring at parallel rows of glyphs that wer e not only clearly recognizable, but were written in ancient Greek, a language he could read.

His eyes skipped over the words, devouring them. Excitement knotted in his g ut. He put the torch back into the holder on the wall, and pulled a notepad from a side pocket of his knaps ack. Quickly, he scrawled the translation. He couldn't believe it. They were righ t. The crazy bastards knew what they were talking about.

He wanted to yell up conserve his energy. pack, pulled out the before fastening the rope.

to the top, but decided to He stuffed the notebook back into the net, and carefully covered the tablet drawstrings to a hook at the end of the

He was about to start chiseling at the wall to loosen the tablet when the rope suddenly jerked against his chest. He dropped several inches; the rope tightened under his arms.

"Hey, what the hell is going on?"

His voice ricocheted about the crevice. He was directly below the tablet now and saw pick marks under it. Someone had not only cleaned the inscription, but h ad tried to remove the tablet. But who?

The rope jerked again. A weird creaking filled the crevice and he knew what it was. His rope was fraying. He pulled the torch from the wall and held it up. "Aw, Christ."

Easy does it, he thought. He placed the torch in his mouth, and reached for the rope above the spot where it was unraveling. He heard a resounding snap, a sharp,

terrible sound that echoed in the crevice. His fingers snagged the rope.

He dangled by one hand, the frayed end rubbing against his wrist. The torch burned the hair on his arm. His face was contorted in a grimace as he stretched his other hand over his head. Sweat beaded on his brow, trickled into his eyes. He felt a hard yank from above, and the rope slipped through his fingers. He reached desperately with his other hand, but his fist closed on black air.

He fell.

1

College Capers

Chicago two years earlier

The night was still and tight as the two men lumbered down a narrow lane, limp bodies draped over their shoulders. Rain from a spri ng shower puddled in hidden depressions, shadowed by the tall buildings on either side. They were nearing a corner, and beyond it was the grassy mall, their destination.

One of the men was tall and rangy and bobbed as he

walked as if constantly readjusting the weight of the body he carted. The other one was sturdy and muscular. Coils of rope hung from bo th sides of his belt, and he moved with the nimbleness of a mountain climber. Suddenly, he stumbled in one of t he ruts and lurched to the side, almost losing his balance. Nimble, yes, but also afflicted by occasional spasms of clumsiness.

"Damn it," he sputtered as he recovered his footing. It was almost over, and he was edgy.

"You okay?" the tall one asked.

"Fine. Let's stop a minute. I've got a bad feeling about this."

The tall one unceremoniously let the body slip from his shoulder, then pulled out a flask from inside his coat. He

held it out, but his partner shook his head. "No?" The tall man shrugged, then took a long swallow.

"Take it easy on that stuff," the rope man hissed.

"It takes the edge off."

"Fifteen more minutes and it'll be all over," the rope man said. He hugged the shadows of the building as he moved ahead, the body still draped over his husky shoulder. When he reached the corner, he looked both ways. In spite of his concern, he was determined to complete his mission, and he wanted every detail perfect.

He turned to signal his partner, but the man was already standing behind him, the other body slung over his shoulder. They headed down a rain-slick sidewalk, the glow of street lamps reflecting off its surface. They stopped when they reached the first light, and slid the bodies onto the grass. Barely visible under a nearby hedge were two other bodies they'd left there half an hour earlier.

"Call your tune," the tall one said.

"Get Paine ready. I want him first. And make sure his hat is on straight." He loosened one of the ropes coiled on his belt. A hang man's noose was knotted at the end of the rope, and with a graceful swing of his arm, he tossed it over the arc of the lamp. The noose danced in the pale light.

"Okay, slide it over his neck, and make sure his name tag doesn't come off."

The tall man lifted the body and worked the noose over the head. When it was tight, he reached into Paine's vest, pulled out a three-cornered hat, and fit it firmly over his head. The other man, meanwhile, had scaled the lamppost, and now raised the b ody into place. He deftly tied the rope, then dropped to the ground.

"Hey, he looks great. Now, just three more to go."

The tall man tipped the flask to his mouth, once more and again, he gestured with it to his partner.

"We'll do Georgie next," the rope man said in response. "God, I can't wait to see the reaction tomorrow morning."

A headless figure wriggled beneath a dark gown like a magician struggling to free himself from chains and locks. Then the top of a head, a brow, and a face emerged from the dark cocoon. He straightened the gown over his bare legs, and gazed at himself in a full-length mirror. He ran a hand through his thick hair, which was parted in the center, then placed his mortarboard and tassel on top of his head.

The intricate lithographic lettering on his diploma would say he was Henry Jones, Jr. But those who knew him called him Indyshort for Indiana, a name he'd used since his early teens. "Henry Jr." was consigned to use on official documents, and by his father, who still called him Junior.

In fact, the only visible remainder of his childhood was a scar on his jaw, which he'd gotten in a scrap with thieves he'd stumbled on in a desert cavern as they uncovered a relic of the Spanish conquest.

But even his father, if he were here, would see that he was no longer a kid. He was handsome in a rugged sort of way, with clear, determined hazel eyes and the broad shoulders and musculature of a halfback. But he wasn't a football player. Although he was well coordinated, he preferred horseback ri ding and skiing to sports like foot ball or baseball. He was also proficient at the use of a whip, an odd skill he rarely talked much about. Not that any of that mattered today.

"I'm a college graduate," he said to himself, and smiled at the image those words conjured, but his smile revealed more than a hint o f irony. He was graduating in spite of everything. He'd missed so many classes last fall, his grades had nose-dived and he'd nearly been expelled. For several weeks, he'd simply lost interest in his formal education while he was attaining another sort on the street.

He and Jack Shannon, his wily roommate, had spent their

nights at barrelhouse piano saloons on the South Side, listening to musicians with names like Pine Top Smith, Cripple Clarence Loft on, Speckled Red, and Cow Cow

Davenport pound the keys on their uprights. The music was called barrelhouse piano because the small bars where it was played serv ed liquor directly out of kegs. At least, they had until Prohibition started a few months back.

Most of the jazzmen had come up from New Orleans, the hometown of jazz, in the last five years, and more were arriving every week. Living conditions for Negroes were better in Chicago; there were jobs in clubs where they could make fifty dollars a week compared to a dollar a night in New Orleans. And Chicago was where the record ing studios were making jazz records.

When the bars closed, Indy and Shannon often headed to freewheeling rent par ties where the music continued until dawn. Shannon would bring his cornet and play along with the likes of Johnny Dunn and Jabbo Smith. Not only was Shannon one of the few whites Indy had seen play jazz, but he was undoubtedly the only economics student playing the music. Most of the jazzmen in the barrelhouse saloons were uneducated. They didn't read music, didn't follow the rules, didn't know the rules, and didn't care. They didn't even know their music was unusual, and all of that contributed to its pow er and integrity. "Hey, you ready? You said you wanted to get there early, right?"

He looked up, snapping out of his reverie. Shannon's red hair looked as wild as ever. His gown was draped over his arm, and he wore a coat and tie. The coat was too short in the sleeves, but he knew Shannon didn't give a damn about it. He had a habit of nodding his head when he was excited or nervous and he was doing it now. But Shannon always seemed a bit edgy, as though he weren't really made for this world. The only time he ever seemed perf ectly at ease was when he was playing his cornet. Then his lanky body seemed to flow with the music and you no longer noticed his size twelve feet or his long neck with its bulging Adam's apple.

Indy glanced once more at himself, then removed the mortarboard. They were o nly a couple of blocks from the grassy mall where the ceremony was being held. They'd be there in a few minutes.

"Okay. Let me get dressed. I don't have my pants on yet."

"Dare you to go just like that. Graduate without your pants, kiddo."

"No thanks. Don't see any reason to do it." He watched Shannon through the m irror, knowing that he would make an offer.

"Tell you what. I'll buy you a bottle of hooch. We'll get plastered."

Indy shrugged. Hell, with the gown on, no one would know the difference. "All right." He wasn't exactly looking forward to the ceremo ny; he just wanted to be done with it. Not wearing any pants would at least make it somewhat interesting. "I can just hear ol' Mulhouse now," he said as they left the house. "'You are a new generation, a generation of hope.'" His voice was deep, authoritative, mimicking the university president. " 'The war is over. Go out into the world and show others who are less fortunate that America's young people are hardworking, productive individuals who get the job done, whatever that job may be.'"

Something like that, he thought. No, the ceremony wasn't the reason Indy wanted to arrive early.

"How is it with no pants?" Shannon asked as they headed down an oak-shrouded street.

"Cool and breezy. You should try it."

Indy expected him to laugh and make a joke, but Shannon wore a pensive expression. "Is your father going

to be here?"

Indy shook his head. "He's busy. Hell, he didn't even bother to apologize."

"Really?" "Yeah. That's how he is. My father, the esteemed expert on grail lore, is a man with little time for anything or anyone outside of his scholarly pursuits."

"He always been like that?"

"Only after my mother died when I was young. Ever since then he's become more distant from me, no matter what I do. I guess I majored in linguistics just to get his attention."

Shannon glanced at him. "How would linguistics get his attention?"

"For as long as I can remember, he's said that language is the key to understanding mankind. But so what? How can he expect me to understand mankind when I can't even understand him?"

"I wish my family were staying home. Hell, I wish I weren't even graduating."

"What're you talking about, Jack? You've got a job and you'll be making good money." Shannon had been hired as an accountant with a Chicago trucking company for the salary of two hundred fifty dollars a month, a sum that seemed astonishingly high. When Indy asked how he'd gotten it, Shannon's only response was "family connections."

"And you'll still have time to play in the clubs," Indy continued. "Hey, remember that night we went down to the Royal Gardens and saw King Oliver? Authentic New Orleans Creole jazz. It's all moving right up here into your own backyard. What more could you ask for?"

Shannon didn't say anything as they crossed the street. "You are going to play, aren't you?" Indy asked as he watched a shiny new Tin Lizzie motor past.

"I made a deal."

Indy noted the dour expression on his face. "What kind of deal?"

"I have to stop playing jazz. That's the price of the job."

"That's crazy. Why?"

"It's not 'respectable' music, Indy."

Indy knew that jazz was slow to catch on. And many

whites thought the syncopated beataccenting notes when it wasn't expectedand i mprovisational style were 'jungle music' It causes the listener to move in stran ge, suggestive ways, he'd heard one radio commentator say.

"That's bullshit, Jack, because I think you could be as

good as Earl Hines or Johnny Dodds. You watch; things will change as the music catches on."

"I don't know if that'll ever happen." Shannon swayed from side to side, his gangly arms moving to their own beat. "You know, they're even blaming jazz for those riots on the South Side. Can you believe that?"

"The rioting had nothing to do with jazz." But the city's race riots were a sour note in a nation that was feeling good about the Allies' victory. They created a sad contrast to the big parad es that marched along New York's Fifth Avenue, celebrating America's role in the triumph.

"It's not marching music, Indy. You know what I mean. Nobody feels like a goddamn hero when they listen to it. That's the problem. It's coming from a different place, and so am I."

Indy chuckled. "You could always go to Europe with me, and start a new life."

"Don't think I haven't thought about it. I'm jealous as hell. You're going to love it."

Paris, Indy was sure, would be fascinating, but he wasn't so certain about becoming an expert in ancient languages. "I guess. But studying old manuscripts in libraries isn't my idea of an exciting time."

"You keep saying that. Why are you doing it?"

"The opportunity was there, and I wasn't going to pass it up. Simple as that."

Shannon abruptly turned down an alley, and motioned for Indy to follow.

"Where you going?"

"C'mon," he said in a hushed voice. "I said I'd buy you

a bottle. Let's get a pint and take it with us. There's a guy close by who's got it."

"I don't know, Jack." Prohibition was a bad joke, but Indy was anxious to get to the campus.

"It'll only take a minute. C'mon."

He shrugged and followed him. Although the two men got along well, they differed considerably in their con sumption of and attitude toward alcohol. Shannon had been a heavy drinker since he was seventeen, and Prohibi tion hadn't slowed his habit. Indy, on the other hand, had a low tolerance f or alcohol and could take it or leave it.

Halfway down the block, Shannon opened a gate, and strolled along the walk to a back door. He rapped out the universal code for "it's me"BOP; bop-bop-bob-bop; BOP; BOP A dog answered, yelping from inside the h ouse. Shannon glanced back at Indy as if to make sure he was still there. A moment later, a short, frumpy man with a cross look on his face opened the door. A two-day stubble shadowed his jaw and his white hair was mussed, as though he'd been sleeping. He shouted at t he dog, then asked what they wanted. "A bottle of juice, Elmo, what else?" Shannon said with a smirk.

The man motioned for them to enter. Indy smelled whiskey on his breath as soon as he stepped into the cramped kitchen.

A wiry, mixed-breed dog growled from behind his mas ter. Indy kept his distance and looked around the kitchen. Green paint was peeling from the walls, revealing patterned wallpaper. One of the cupboard doors lay on the floor where it had apparently fallen some time ago, and the room stank of urine-soaked newspapers stacked in one corner.

"Just a quick pint, Elmo. We're in a hurry."

"Good for you." He looked past Shannon and frowned at Indy's black gown. "Who's this guy, a judge?"

"Don't you know a college graduate when you see one? We're on our way to the big time."

"Is that right? This professor who visits me says I deserve an honorary degree. How do you like that?" Elmo grinned, his teeth lining up in his mouth like a picket fence that had yellowed in the sun.

"A degree in what, moonshining?" Shannon asked.

"No. Chemistry."

Indy laughed, but he felt uneasy, and wished they hadn't stopped.

"You got it or not, Elmo? We don't have all day."

"Fifty cents."

"Fifty?" Shannon threw up his hands, enraged by the price. "How about a brea k for the new graduates? C'mon, Elmo." "Fifty cents," Elmo retorted, and crossed his arms over his chest.

"All right, all right." Shannon turned to Indy. "You got a quarter?"

"What about our deal?"

"I'll pay you back. Don't worry."

Indy dug into his pocket. He earned expense money by tutoring high school students in Latin and French, but never had much extra. He grudgingly handed Shannon a quarter.

Elmo dropped the coins in his pocket, ambled across the kitchen, and descended into a cellar. Indy glanced at his watch. "I hope he doesn't get lost down there."

Shannon waved a hand impatiently, dismissing Indy's concern. "Relax, we'll be there in no time."

Indy saw that the dog had bared its teeth and was growling again.

"What's his problem?" Indy grumbled.

Shannon pointed at the mongrel. "Shut up, pooch."

But the dog charged past them as someone banged on the door. Shannon looked toward the cellar, shrugged, then opened the door a couple of inches. "Who is it?"

"Ya mudda. Open up. I'm here to see Elmo."

"Who's there?" the old moonshiner called out as he emerged from the basement. He slipped Indy the pint,

and The hat his .

the graduate-to-be stuffed it inside his mortarboard. door swung open, and a man in a dark coat, tie, and filled the doorway. He had a grim, menacing look on face and a gun in his hand. Aw, hell. A damp chill raced up Indy's spine

Elmo took one look at the new visitor and bolted toward the front door. The man yelled for him to stop, but Elmo kept moving. The man charged through the house, the dog yelping at his heels.

Indy and Shannon exchanged a glance and rushed for the kitchen door. At the bottom of the steps, Indy tripped on his gown and fell to his knees. He scrambled up and raced after Shannon, who was sprinting across the yard. Indy couldn't help laughing; they were getting away, escaping the danger, and he even had the whiskey. But then Shannon stopped abruptly, and Indy crashed into him. At the gate were two cops just waiting to nab them. "Hey, you two!" "Shit."

Shannon spun, dashed across the yard, and ran between two houses. Indy didn't wait around for directions; he darted after him, hiking up his gown as he ran. He passed Shannon as they crossed the street. They fled across a

succession of yards and in between houses. He was almost sure they had gotten away when he realized he'd run into a yard enclosed by an eight-foot wood fence. "Damn," he hissed.

"Watch out!" Shannon shouted behind him. Indy's head jerked around; he expected to see the cops. Instead, a pair of Doberman pinschers were dashing toward them. "Christ," he breathed. He dropped the pint, pulled on his mortarboard, and scrambled up the fence. Just as he was about to lift a leg over the top, he was yanked back. One of the Dobermans had snared his gown. The dog snarled and shook its head from side to side as Indy struggled to ge t away.

He reached back and jerked hard, ripping the gown from the dog's mouth. He leaped over the fence, and dropped to the ground where Shannon was already wait ing. They crossed another yard, ducked around a garage, then pulled up short. The two cops were standing in the alley with their rev olvers drawn.

"Nice going, boys. Hold it right there," said the shorter cop.

Indy froze. Now they were in trouble, and it wasn't even his trouble.

"Billy?" Shannon said, rocking forward onto the balls of his feet. "That you?"

"Jesus," murmured the cop. "Jack Shannon. What're you doing here?"

"I could ask you the same thing. We were getting a pint. We're on our way to graduation."

"Christ, Shannon." He glanced at his partner. "It's Harry's brother." He jerked his head toward the alley. "Get out of here and watch who the hell you do business with from now on."

"Thanks, Billy."

"Don't thank me, Jack. Harry's going to hear about this. You can count on it."

Indy had no idea what Shannon's brother had to do with the cop. As they hurried toward the campus, Indy's torn gown flapped like a flag behind him. "Your brother's not a cop, is he, Jack?"

An angry scowl tightened Shannon's face. "No, but he's got friends. Billy Flannery is from the neighborhood."

"But what were they doing?"

"Putting a small-time competitor out of business. Har ry's got territory to maintain."

"The cops work for your brother?"

"Wake up, Indy. They all work for the organization, and Harry's a charter member. It runs in the family."

2

Hanging Heroes

The back of Indy's gown was in shreds, and he held it together with one hand as they passed through the gate of the campus. But he didn't give a damn. He was just grateful to be free of cops and crooks and dogs. He was graduating and that was all that mattered.

He glanced up at a banner fluttering in the breeze.

CELEBRATE FOUNDING FATHERS DAYMAY 23, it read. At the sight of it his stomach knotted, and his sense of relief vanished. With ever ything that had just happened, he'd almost forgotten about last night. What had seemed like a notable way to end his college career no longer felt so wonderful.

As they reached the end of the lane leading to the mall, they stopped. A crowd of black-gowned students and their families were gathered on the sidewalk. Above them, bodies dangled from ropes high up on lampposts. From where they stood, the hanging mannequins looked like actual corpses dressed in American revolutionary garb complete with loose white shirts and vests, tight-fitting pants, and three-cornered hats.

"Well, look at that," Shannon said with a mischievous grin. "Georgie, the two Toms, and Benji."

Indy stared glumly at the sight. The thrill had definitely

worn off. "I don't know. It's sort of grotesque in the

daylight. I guess I didn't really think they'd still be here."

On a weekday the campus maintenance workers would probably have cut them down and carted away by now. But it was Saturday, midmorning, graduation day, and everyone was stopping and staring.

"Well, I think it's great." Shannon grinned and slapped Indy on the back. "We pulled it off." There wasn't a trace of concern in his voice.

"Yeah. Swell."

"Look. The press is even here. It's your chance to tell them all about it!"

That was his original intention, but now he wasn't so sure he wanted to take credit for the deed, much less boast about it. Maybe it hadn't been such a good idea to postpone it from the night before Founding Fathers Day to the eve of graduation. Maybe no one would understand.

Shannon punched him lightly on the shoulder. "There're my folks. See you in a while."

Indy watched him drift into the crowd, then walked over to where photographers were snapping pictures of "Tom Jefferson." Several people were talking at once, and the words struck him like blows to the gut.

"Who could have done it?" he heard someone ask.

"What was the point?"

"No point."

"It's horrible."

"Must have been a Bolshevik. I've heard they were on campus."

"Maybe it was a Royalist. I'm sure they must hate

Franklin."

"A mad Englishman."

No one seemed to find it humorous or to grasp its meaning. Now he was barely able to contain himself. He felt like shouting that it was just his Founding Fathers Day

exhibit, and didn't they understand what these men stood for, anyway? "It's a disgrace to the university," an authoritative voice boomed from unde r the next lamppost. "An outrage of the worst sort."

Mallery Mulhouse, the university president, was surrounded by reporters, stud ents, and parents. His face was ruddier than usual, and his brow was covered in sweat.

Founding Fathers Day was Mulhouse's inspiration. It involved a day of speech es and patriotic ado, and although no one was forced to participate, it was cons idered a gaffe for undergraduates to ignore it. During Indy's first two years, when he'd lived in a dormitory, the floor captains had been responsib le for getting everyone involved in making floats for the parade or other related projects.

Last year, when he'd moved into an apartment off campus, he'd avoided Founding Fathers Day. But this year, Mulhouse had required everyone taking a history or an English course to write a paper on the Founding Fathers or fail the course. Indy had grudgingly abided, but in his own way.

'Anyone who would hang effigies of our nation's foun ders from the lampposts of an academy of higher learning is clearly a dangerous, unbalanced individual," Mulhouse continued. "I consi der this an act of sedition, an affront to everything this nation is about."

A frown furrowed Indy's brow as he worked his way closer to Mulhouse. He'd expected controversy; he'd wanted it. But he hadn't counted on Mulhouse considering it some sort of high crime against the nation.

"Don't you think it was just a college prank?" one of the reporters asked.

Indignation seized Mulhouse's face, reddening it even more. "If it's a prank, it's in extremely poor taste. Whoever was behind it w ill be found and proper punishment will be meted out."

"Are you saying that hanging these dummies could be considered a criminal act?" another reporter called out.

"The university police have been notified, and our lawyers are looking into the legal aspects at this moment. Right now I'm not discounting anything."

"Dr. Mulhouse, isn't what we see here simply an example of freedom of speech as professed by our founding fathers?" asked a student Indy recognized as the university newspaper's edito r.

Mulhouse pointed to "Georgie" behind him, who was now being cut down by one of his assistants. "Young man, hanging an effigy of our country's first president on a lamppost of a university is not an example of freedom of speech. On the contrary, it's a threat to it."

Damn. It wasn't going well at all. Indy looked down at the mortarboard in his hand, and wondered if they could still take away his diploma. Then what? He'd be out of luck, that's what. But he should have thought about that last night.

"What do you make of it, Jones?"

He turned to see Ted Conrad, his history professor. He was in his early thirties, wore an old-time handlebar mustache, and was Indy's favorite instructor.

Indy shrugged and gazed at the nearest dummy. "Someone went to a lot of trou ble." "Looks like a parting shot at Founding Fathers Day to me."

A hint of a smile shadowed Indy's mouth. "Could be, I suppose."

He admired the professor for his forthright manner as well as for his compel ling ideas. Conrad had repeatedly told the class to stand up for what they believed, to question authority. Freedom of speech, he'd said, meant expressing yourself any way you wanted as long as it did not harm anyone else. That was what democracy was about. Conrad had also poked gentle fun at the exalted

stature of Founding Fathers Day, and when he'd assigned the required class paper, had prodded them, saying: "Keep in mind when you write this paper that you are attending a university, not a church."

Indy had done just that, and now Conrad suspected him; he was sure of it.

"What I see here, Jones," he said, smiling as he motioned toward the hanging figures, "looks a lot like what you were suggesting in your paper."

Indy suddenly realized he was as transparent as water to Conrad. "I didn't say they should've been hanged. My point was that if the British had won, our great Founding Fathers would have been branded traitors and probably hung."

"Oh, I know your point. I liked that paper. Gave you an A." Great. He understood.

"Then you can appreciate what I did here," Indy exclaimed. "This was my parting Founding Fathers Day project. Democracy in practice."

Conrad nodded. "Only a week late, but still nicely timed to coincide with your graduation. I admire your

boldness, Jones. But you're still going to have to face the consequences, you know."

He looked down at Indy's torn gown, and the white, hairy legs which protruded from beneath it. "Nice outfit, by the way."

Indy felt like an insect trapped on flypaper, still alive but ready to be squashed. He stood at one end of a long conference table in a richly paneled room on the fourth floor of the administration building. It was smack in the gray, cold heart of the university, a place few students ever ventured. Seated around the table were the dean of students, the history department chairman, a member of the university's boar d of regents, two university lawyers, and Ted Conrad. Except for Conrad, who'd turned him in, all were severe-looking older men in gray suits.

Suddenly, the door opened and President Mulhouse strode into the conference room. He greeted everyone around the table, then looked up at Indy. "Take a seat, Mr. Jones." Mulhouse pointed to a chair at the opposite end of the table.

He'd been roused early yesterday morning by two uni versity police officers and questioned in their office. He'd confessed everything, except Shannon's participation. Dean Williams had been present and after the police were finished, he questioned Indy for another half hour about his personal life. The dean, a distinguished white-haired man, had once been a psychology professor, and his questions reflected that fact. Finally, he'd been ordered to appear here today at ten sharp.

"'The Nature of American Patriots and Traitors,' " Mulhouse mused, tapping his finger against Indy's Founding Fathers Day paper . "Well, that's better than 'Hanging Heroes,' as the press calls this episode." He peered at the new graduate over the rims of his pince-nez and stroked his chi n, one of those practiced academic gestures at which he excelled. "Did you think you could really get away with this, Mr. Jones?" "I

... ah.. ." Indy cleared his throat and tried to over come his nervousness. "I'm not trying to get away with anything. My paper is about the fine line between popular heroes and treacherous villains. If the British had won"

"But the British didn't win, Mr. Jones," the history department chairman interrupted. "And when you hung the effigies of our national heroes, our Founding Fathers, from those lamppo sts, you were acting like a traitor. And that's precisely how most people see it."

"I think we need to consider some mitigating circum stances in our judgment of Mr. Jones," Dean Williams said. "I had a long talk with him yesterday morning, and I

believe that he is a disturbed young man. His act was not so much an attack on our Founding Fathers, as against his own father, his only living relative, the renowned medie val scholar Dr. Henry Jones.

"As I understand it, Dr. Jones is a very busy man, and unfortunately he did not have the time to travel from New York for his son's graduation. There apparently has been some resentment on the son's part regarding his father's aloofness, and what took place the night before graduation is a manifestation of those feelings."

It annoyed Indy that the dean discussed him as though he weren't in the room. And what was he saying? Sure, he felt resentful toward his father, but that wasn't why he'd hung the Founding Fathers. He was about to say so when Ted Conrad spoke up.

"That's an interesting analysis, Dean Williams, but I'm not sure it has much to do with Mr. Jones's actions. His motives were obviously related to his Founding Fathers Day paper. The paper itself was well thought out. Rewrit ing history is, at best, speculative, but the events he described were well reasoned."

Mulhouse's mouth pursed with disapproval. "Are you condoning his actions, Professor Conrad?" Indy sat forward. "Excuse me, but" "No, I'm not condoning what he did," Conrad said, ignoring Indy. "He went considerably beyond what was required or allowed for such a project. I'm just explaining what I think motivated him."

It was obvious that Mulhouse wasn't buying any of it. "Of course you can look at is psychologically or academi cally. But the fact remains that Mr. Jones was illustrating his disrespect for our nation's founders, and his distaste for Founding Fathers Day, an institution at this university."

They talked a few minutes longer about his motives with everyone agreeing that, whatever they were, he was

wrong. Then Indy was asked to leave the room. "Can I say something, please?" he asked as he stood.

Mulhouse frowned at him. "Go ahead, young man, but keep it brief."

"All I want to say is that my father has nothing to do with what I did. I never once thought I was symbolically hanging him."

With that, he turned and walked out of the room and took a seat in the outer office. He sighed heavily. He imagined them continuing their conversation, talking about the alternatives, deciding his future, and trying to dissect his personality in the process. At the very least, he was sure that Mulhouse intended to take away his diploma.

What would he do without a degree? He wouldn't go to Paris. That was certain. He'd have to find a job. But what kind of job? Without a degree he couldn't even teach

French or Latin. He didn't want to think about what he might do, because he didn't know.

Several minutes later, the door opened and Dean Williams nodded for him to r ejoin them. As Indy sat down, Mulhouse's gaze flicked toward him. "Now, Mr. Jone s, you are fortunate that I am someone who listens closely to what others have to say. First of all, our attorneys and I have discussed the possibilities of pros ecuting this case. It is our consensus that there will be no benefit for this ins titution if we carry the matter any further, at least in a legal sense. We prefe r to put this behind us."

C'mon, just get this over with. Say it. Say you're taking away my diploma.

"The easiest way of handling the matter would be to simply expel you. But you've already graduated. Lucky for you." His smile was cold and hard. "However, we under stand that you are planning to attending the Sorbonne this fall. We can easi ly refuse to send your records, and it's doubtful whether you would be considere d a legitimate student." His pause was deliberate, to let the significance

of what he was saying sink in. "But we're going to give you a chance to redeem yourself."

Mulhouse glanced among the others, and they nodded approvingly. "I would lik e you to apologize to everyone here for what you did, then write a letter of apology, which my office will submit to the press."

Every eye in the room turned toward him as the men waited for him to reply. But he didn't have anything to say. Why should he apologize for something he wasn't sorry for? What about standing up for what he believed in? What about democracy?

Conrad was staring intently at Indy and the message

was implicit: Accept what they're offering you. Indy looked away from him, irritated that Conradwho'd betrayed him, who couldn't even stick to his own principlesshould now presume to advise him. But if he didn't apologize, he knew Mulhouse would make good on his threat to with hold his records. The lesser of two evils, he thought, and said, "Fine, I'll do it."

Mulhouse nodded, and smiled thinly. "Well, we're wait ing. Let's hear it."

Indy looked down at the tabletop. "I apologize to all of you. I'm sorry... sorry I did it. Your office will have my letter of apology tomorrow."

Then he pushed away from the table, stood, and walked quickly out of the room. He descended the stairs two at a time until he reached the first floor, then headed across the mall. He didn't know where he was going. It didn't matter. He was literally seeing red.

"Jones, hold on, will you?"

It was Conrad. Indy kept walking.

"Jones."

He stopped, turned. "What do you want?"

"I want to talk to you."

Indy realized he was standing just a few feet from the lamppost where he and Shannon had hung the first man-

nequin. "I suppose you'd like me to climb up there and hang myself," he said, stabbing a finger at the lamppost. "Or maybe you just want me to apologize to you personal ly. Is that it?"

"Calm down, Jones. You did just fine in there. Just

fine." "Sure. I did great."

"Listen to me. You made your point. Believe me, you did. I talked to Mulhouse at his home for almost an hour yesterday, and he conceded that he'd overreacted."

"Well, I didn't hear him apologizing."

"No, but you didn't find yourself arrested, either. Those lawyers could have drummed up any number of charges from vandalism to treason. Don't you see? You won. Hell, if booze were legal, I'd buy you a drink."

"I won, but I had to apologize? What kind of victory is

that?"

"Look, Mulhouse has to maintain his cloak of credibility. If you had ripped it off by refusing to apologize, he would have had no choice but to ruin your chances at the Sorbonne."

Indy knew Conrad was right. "What about this apology

I have to write?"

"It's your chance to explain to everyone what you were doing. Just don't gloat; say you know it was a mistake."

"Yeah. I suppose."

Conrad clasped him on the shoulder. "That's the spirit. Good luck in Paris. I envy you. I'm sure you'll do well and find what you're looking for."

As Conrad walked away, Indy thought about what the professor had said. What was he looking for? He didn't know, but he had the feeling that he'd recognize it when he saw it.

3

LADY ICE

ParisOctober 1922

It was a brisk fall morning and Indy bundled his leather jacket around his t hroat as he traipsed along the boulevard St. Michel. Unlike most of the Frenchmen he passed on the street, he wasn't wearing a scarf. Madelaine had given him one last Christmas, but he hadn't seen her for several weeks and wearing it reminded him of her.

He leaned forward, pulled his hat low over his brow, and picked up his pace. He not only wanted to escape the cold, but he was looking forward to the lecture this morning in his Greek archaeology class. The topic was Apollo's Oracle, and he was curious about the approach Professor Belecamus would take.

He crossed the campus, heading directly to the class room building. After two years of studying at the Sorbonne, he felt he knew the city almost as well as a native Parisian. But, of course, he would always be a foreigner here, and oddly enough he lik ed the feeling. He was an outsider, on the inside.

He was in his third year of a Ph.D. program that focused on ancient written languages, and was taking his second course in classical Greek archaeology. It fit well

with his study of Old Greek, but there was also something else about the course that particularly captivated himthe professor.

Everything about her, from the clothes and perfume she wore to the way she t alked and walked, was distinctly feminine. And yet, beneath this veneer he sensed a strength and self-possession that intrigued him. The di chotomy hinted at the mystery of this woman and also defined the boundaries of her personal area. Too close and you're in trouble, it whispered.

So far that had not been a problem. He was midway through his second course with her and was excelling in it. His knowledge of Old Greek as well as his thorough understanding of Greek mythology made him something of a standout among his peers, but she had acted as if he

didn't exist.

A few days earlier, he had approached her after class and asked a couple of questions about her lecture. She'd answered in a brusque tone that matched the cold indiffer ence in her eyes. He refused to be intimidated, and had told her how much he enjoyed her lectures.

"That's nice," she'd said, then excused herself and brushed

past him.

Dorian Belecamus was Lady Ice. That was the way he thought of her. Yet, ice could be melted, and somewhere below her thick prot ective coating there must be a warm, friendly woman who longed for intimacy.

Or so he fantasied.

Lost in thought, he collided with someone as he entered the classroom and re alized it was she. He dropped to one knee to retrieve the notebook that had slipped from Belecamus's hand. His eyes shifted to her trim legs, which were just inches from his head. On most days she dressed in a long skirt and a white blouse covered by a sleeveless velveteen waistcoat. But today she wore a shorter plaid

schoolgirl dress that made her look as if she might be one of the students rather than the instructor.

She crouched and plucked up a paper that had slipped out of the notebook. They stood at the same time and their eyes met; hers were lovely, wide and dark, almost black. "Sorry, Dr. Belecamus. I didn't see you."

"Thanks, Jones." She flicked a hand at her thick raven hair. It was tied back with a bow and set off her compelling eyes, high cheekbones, and full mouth. "Nice running into you. See me after class. I have something to talk to you about."

Abruptly, she turned away and walked to the podium. Indy gazed after her, as tonished that she'd actually smiled at him. He glanced around the classroom, expecting to see looks of envy from the men, knowing glances from the women. But no one seemed to notice. He'd broken, or at least cracked, the cake of ice that encased Dorian Belecamus, and no one cared. What was with these guys? Their expressions were as inscrutable as the mugs on the skulls that stared out from the cases that lined the walls of the room. The French were supposed to be lovers, but none of them seemed to think there was anything special about their instructor.

He sat down at a desk on the aisle, opened his note book, and tried to think of reasons she would want to see him. He could think of none. A plain-looking girl with stringy brown hair and wire-rimmed glasses leaned over toward him from the next seat. "God, did you see how she's dressed today?" she whispered. "Like she thinks she's one of us."

No comparison, Indy thought. Worlds apart. Worlds improved. "She's not. Not even close," he said in a commiserating tone. He turned back to his notebook, cutting off the conversation.

"The topic today is one with which I am intimately

familiar," Belecamus began. Ironic, he thought. She was intimate with a dead city.

"As a child I visited the ruins of Delphi during the early years of the modern restoration, which began in 1892." Her eyes darted to the door and a late arrival squirmed under her gelid stare as he found a seat. "As a high school student and later in college, I spent my summers working first as a volunteer, then as a paid assistant at the site. Delphi became the focus of my graduate study, and my Ph.D. thesis. Before coming to teach here, I spent five years as the chief archaeologist at the ruins while associated with the University of Athens."

She looked down a moment, and smiled to herself. "One of my assistants once made the mistake of jokingly referring to me as Pythia. As we all know Pythia was the name of the succession of women who served as Apollo's Oracle, or the Oracle of Delphi. To become Pythia a woman had to be from a poor farmer's family, more than fifty years old, and not particularly intelligent." Her eyes roamed around the room. "I hope you can understand why I did not feel particularly charmed by the comment."

This elicited a collective laugh from the class. Belecamus definitely fit neither the age bracket nor the intelligence quotient, and she most likely was not from a poor family, Indy thought.

"Pythia made her pronouncements from the altar in the Temple of Apollo, where she sat on a copper-and-gold tripod set above a fissure in the earth. Intoxicating vapors supposedly rose from the aperture, causing the woman to enter a frenzied trance." She smiled again, as if at some

private joke, and her gaze settled on Indy. "One witness from the first century A.D. described Pythia's transformation this way: 'Her eyes flashed, she foamed at the mouth, her hair stood on end.' Then she would reply to the question which had been put to her."

Indy suddenly felt as though she were speaking only to

him, that the rest of the class no longer mattered. Heat crept up the back o f his neck. His eyes remained riveted on her, taking in the way the light slipped over her black hair and glinted in her dark eyes.

"Her answer was always an incoherent babble of words and phrases. Incoherent to all, that is, except the temple priests, who interpreted them for the petitioner." Belecamus looked over the class. "By the way, does anyone know what the word Delphi means? Mr. Jones, our Greek scholar, how about it?"

So, she had been looking at him, and she was aware of his study of ancient Greek.

"It means 'place of the dolphin.'"

She nodded. "Okay. But tell me, why is it called that?"

Indy had learned the mythical history of Delphi as a child, long before he even knew that Greece was a coun try. "Apollo arrived at the shrine in the form of a dolphin."

"And what did he find there?"

He suddenly felt as if he were twelve years old again and his father was drilling him on the myths he'd assigned him to study. But Dorian Belecamus was hardly his father. "A dragon named Python. It was the serpent-son of Gaea, the earth goddess and Poseidon, the earth shaker. Python lived in a cave on the mountain and spoke prophecies through Pythian priestesses."

"And what happened?"

"Apollo killed the dragon, and tossed him into a crevice in the earth."

"Thank you, Mr. Jones." Her eyes flicked away from him and darted around the room. "Now let's move away from the mythological aspects to our historical knowledge of Delphi."

She explained that for more than a millennium, from approximately 700 B.C. t o a.d. 362, the mountain retreat had been the site of an oracle. She moved away from the podium as she continued talking. It was obvious she didn't

need any notes. "At the height of its influence, Delphi was the seat of power in the Mediterranean, virtually scripting the political history of the region. Hardly any action of consequence was taken by the rulers without consulting the oracle. Even skep tical philosophers including Plato and Socrates held the Oracle in high regard. Over the years, Delphi accumulated a vast treasure of gold and marble statues, paintin gs and jewelry, all tributes from

clients."

"Were the predictions actually accurate?" one of the students asked.

"I was just getting to that. The predictions were often worded in ambiguous phrases open to varying interpreta tions," she said. "However, one of the possibilities usually was accurate. Let me give you a few examples."

When asked how the Greeks would fare against a Persian attack in 480 B.C., the Oracle said to trust the "wooden walls." Although the meaning of the walls was debated, the Greeks successfully defended themselves in their wooden fleet of ships even though they were surrounded. "So those who interpreted the 'wooden walls' as wooden ships were proved correct," she concluded.

When the Roman emperor Nero was warned: Beware of seventy-three, he chose to interpret the prediction as meaning that he would die at the age of seventy-three. Instead, he was overthrown at age thirty-one by Galba, who was seventy-three. "Some predictions were accurate in only an ambiguous or even a cynical sense," she continued. "For instance, Croesus was told that if he invaded neighboring Cyrus he would destroy a mighty empire. He did: his own."

Hocus-pocus, Indy thought. He doubted that Plato or Socrates gave a damn about the oracle. They gave lip service to the oracle only because it was the religion of the time; to defy that authority would have cost them dearly.

Indy knew from his studies that the powerful priests

who interpreted the babblings of Pythia were at the center of the Amphyctionic League, a coalition of Greek citystates, and were therefore well informed about important activities through the region. They simply used the oracle to create an aura of truth to their proc lamations. In effect, the old woman called Pythia was simply a ritualistic vehicle of no actual consequence.

He also knew that his father would lash out at him if he

ever said such a thing to him. Reducing Apollo's Oracle to a form of political corruption lacking any mystical reality was heresy. But all through his childhood, Indy had watched his father become increasingly mired in mystical musings that had taken over his life, and virtually ruined his own.

He raised his hand. "What exactly were those vapors that Pythia breathed when she made her prophecies?"

Belecamus sounded amused by the question. "Ah, the legendary 'mephitic' gases, as they were called. "Who knows? Legend has it that the vapors came from the rotting carcass of Python."

"Fortunately, scientists don't take myths and legends as fact," Indy respond ed. "That's where religion and science part."

Belecamus stopped in front of him. Indy's eyes were drawn to her strong, tawny legs bare almost to her knees. "So what do you think the vapors were, Mr. Jones?"

He raised his eyes from her legs. For a moment he didn't answer. Her presence so near him nearly overwhelmed him. He cleared h is throat and gathered his thoughts. She challenged him, and he would meet her h ead on. "Most likely they were a mixture of burning incense and bay leaves. Pyth ia inhaled the mixture and chewed narcotic laurel leaves to enter a trance state . The so-called vapors were just another way for the priests to mystify and ritu alize the activities." Belecamus crossed her arms. "You're very rational, Mr. Jones. That's good. But sometimes we need to spur our imaginations in archaeology. Myths are often a spring board to truth and understanding."

"They can also baffle and mislead, and too often are taken as the truth themselves," he responded. "Even by intelligent people."

His father, for instance.

Belecamus smiled, and moved back to the podium. "Well said. I hope everyone here understands the double nature of myths."

As the hour neared its end, Belecamus said she wanted to make an announcement. "This lecture on Delphi, as you know, has been scheduled for weeks. But oddly enough it coincides with an urgent matter at Delphi. Just two days ago there was a minor earthquake in the area."

"Was there much damage?" someone asked.

"The quake caused the earth to buckle, and a crevice has opened in Apollo's Temple. But on the bright side, there apparently has also been a new discoverya stone tablet has been spotted protruding from inside the chasm."

"What's on it?" someone else asked.

"We don't know yet. I'll be leaving Paris shortly to inspect the site. What this means is that my teaching assistant will take over the course for the remainder of the semester."

Indy felt a sudden vacancy in his chest, an absence of vital organs, as thou gh his heart had been suctioned out. "I want to wish you all the best for the semester. You've been a very attentive group. I'll miss you."

Everyone applauded. As a line of students filed past Belecamus, wishing her well, Indy remained at his desk. Finally, as the last few students left, he stood up and

approached the podium.

"Mr. Jones, I hope I'm not keeping you from anything. Another class? A girlfriend waiting in the hall, perhaps?"

"No. Not at all."

"Good. I asked you to wait because I wanted to tell you more about my immediate plans."

"You do?"

Her eyes locked on his. Her look was as penetrating and intimate as an embra ce and its intensity astonished him. "Would you be interested in accompanying me to Delphi as my assistant?"

"Me?"

"Yes. You are my best student, and I'll need help from someone not associated with the University of Athens. Politics, if you know what I mean."

"Well, I'm not, uh, sure that I can leave right away," he stammered. "I mean, it's the middle of the semester."

She waved a hand. "Don't worry. I'll take care of everything with the university. My emergency leave was approved, and you'll receive credit for field study. Your basic costs will be covered by my research budget. What do you say?"

Indy wasn't quite sure how to respond. On the one hand, he was ecstatic. But on the other, her assumption that he would simply drop everything irritated him. Besides, archaeology wasn 't even his field of study.

"It's kind of sudden."

She took a step closer to him, and smiled. "It'll be worth it, Henry."

He wanted to correct her, to tell her to call him Indy, that Henry was his f ather. But just the fact that she'd addressed him by his first name was a major break through. It was as if some invisible barrier between pro fessor and student had been pierced.

To act familiar was saying that you were equals, and she'd made it clear from the first day of class that she was not their equal. She'd not only been schooled in Greek archaeology since her teens, but she was of the Greek culture. It was in her blood. In her class she was the

authority, the living source of knowledge, and they were sponges, there to absorb her wisdom.

And now she was giving him what might be the chance of a lifetime. It will be worth it. Of course, she'd meant the opportunity t o work at Delphi, but hadn't she hinted at more? Or was he just imagining it? "I'd like to think about it, but it sounds . . . interesting." Such a weak word, but nothing else came to mind.

"Don't wait too long, Henry." Her voice was low and breathy. "Opportunities like this don't come along every day."

4

Dada and Jazz

Indy opened the door of the Jungle, a boite in Montparnasse . It was early and he was relieved to see that the tables the Dada crowd usually claimed near the door were empty. He wasn't in any mood to listen to their banter. They were, for the most part, arrogant cynics who enjoyed insulting virtually anyone who walked in the door.

He looked around, his eyes adjusting to the dim light. The ceiling was layered with copper, the walls were wooden, and the small bar was trimmed with copper. Hanging high overhead were severa l dim Victorian candelabras, and a balcony with more tables encircled the place. At one end of the nightclub, under a lip of the balcony, was a small wooden stage. A single red light bulb glowed above it, spilling light onto an upright piano and a set of drums.

Only three or four tables were occupied, and at one of them near the bar Ind y spotted a lone figure bent over in concentration as he scribbled something on a sheet of paper. Light from a burning candle stuck inside an empty wine bottle streake d the man's red hair. Indy strolled over and pulled out a chair.

"Hey, Jack."

"Indy," Shannon said without looking up. "Kinda early."

"I know."

He eased down in the chair, and noticed how a strand of

Shannon's unkempt hair hung dangerously close to the candle's flame. His old college roommate had been living in Paris for the past year, after quitting his job with the trucking company in Chicago. Although he'd kept his bargain with his family and hadn't played in any clubs, he'd practiced nightly in his apartment, collect ed dozens of new jazz records, and all the while saved his money and planned his escape to Paris.

"I want to talk to you about something."

"Go ahead." Shannon looked up for the first time. "What's on your mind?"

He told Shannon about Belecamus's offer. "I just heard about it today, and I'm still trying to sort everything out."

Shannon set his pencil on the table. "Let me buy you a drink. I think you ne ed one." He raised a hand, caught the eye of the bartender, and ordered two Pernods.

"Tell me more about this woman. This professor of yours."

"Not really much to tell. I don't know her very well." A sly smile altered the shape of his mouth. "Not yet, anyway."

Shannon didn't seem amused. "If I were you, I'd ask around before I took off with her. I'd find out what she's all about."

Shannon, the analyst. "Oh, come on. You think she'd just make this up so she can go home to Greece in the middle of the semester and take me with her?"

"I don't know. It seems to me that she could be playing you for a sucker."

"Jack, for chrissake, we're not on the South Side making some gangster deal."

Shannon stared coldly at him, and Indy realized it was the wrong thing to say.

"I'm sorry. It's just that if you'd sat in on one of her classes, you'd know she isn't that type. She's serious, intelligent."

"And beautiful," Shannon added. "Right?"

"That too."

"Just watch yourself. It sounds sort of suspicious to me."

"Why?"

"Look, if you were an archaeology student, I wouldn't think twice about it. But you're not."

Indy shrugged off the remark. "Look, it's an opportuni ty, a good one, and I don't want to pass it up on account of some vague suspicion."

Shannon held up his hands. "Hey, I'm not arguing with you. I'm just telling you what I think."

"You know how ambivalent I've felt about life as a scholar. Maybe this is what I've been looking fora career with some adventure."

"I'm not sure about the career, but I bet your profes sor's going to be an adventure. Hell, I don't know. Maybe it's just what you need."

As their drinks arrived, Indy looked around and was surprised by the number of tables that were now occu pied. It was as if a crowd had seeped out of the wall. "To Greece," Shannon toasted. "Hope it works out."

Indy sipped his Pernod, then nodded at the scrap of paper in front of Shannon. "What were you writing?"

"Just a song."

"A song? For the band?"

"Sure."

"Who's going to sing?"

"The band" was Shannon on cornet, a piano player from Brooklyn whose professional experience had been limited to performances at bar mitzvahs, and a Parisian drummer who'd never played jazz until he'd heard Shannon's re cords. None of them sang as far as Indy knew. Shannon waved the paper in the candlelight.

"I'm looking for a sultry with a deep Chicago I could go and have my choice

singer. A woman. She's got to be real voice. No sopranos. If we were in down to the Gardens or Dreamland of ladies fitting the bill."

"I suppose. Not too many of them visiting Paris, though." "Oh, they'll be here, Indy." He leaned forward, his eyes bright with sudden excitement. "You look at the crowds we get here with this make-do band. They're hungering for jazz in this town. The bands will be coming here. Lots of 'em. Listen an d tell me what you think. This is called 'Down in the Quarter.'" Shannon frowned at the paper, then started reciting:

"You know I fled Chicago

Late in twenty-one.

Floated on cross the water,

And never did see the sun.

Finally landed in the Quarter,

Left side of the Seine.

But found so many Americans

thought I was back from where I came.

Down in the Quarter; Down in the Quarter. Meet you tonight Down in the Quart er.

Shannon shrugged. "That's all I got so far."

"Why don't you say, thought I was going insane, for your last line on the first verse instead of back from where I came?"

"Because it's not true. Besides, the number of beats is wrong."

Indy nodded. "I like it. Never knew you wrote songs."

'Well, it's just words on paper now, but I think I've got some real gutsy love songs in me. Gotta find that singer, though."

Indy laughed. "Ha. I think you're looking for more than just a singer."

They both turned as they heard a ruckus near the door.

Chairs clattered. People shouted. Indy peered over his shoulder. "What's going on?"

"Looks like they're arguing about the table."

"The Dada gang. Should've guessed," Indy said dryly.

They had taken over two tables on either side of the door, and now one of th e men was rapping on the table and chanting what sounded like czar.. . czar. . . czar.... The other chimed in: arf.. .arf.. .arf....

"What are they saying?"

"Tzara and Arp. Tristan Tzara is a poet. Jean Arp is an artist. I heard they were going to be here tonight."

"So it's going to be a Dada sort of evening," Indy said unenthusiastically.

Shannon knocked back the rest of his drink. "They're really not a bad bunch. Just sort of abrasive sometimes toward anyone they see as standing for traditio nal ways."

"Toward anyone who walks in the door," Indy remarked. "They rub me the wrong way."

"They're making a break, Indy. We need people like that to wake us up sometimes."

"I agree, but they're as dependent on traditions as anyone. Maybe more so."

"How can you say that?"

"Where would they be without tradition, Jack? If there were no traditions, there would be no basis for nontraditional art." Shannon grinned, shook his head. "Yeah, I guess so. But like I said, we need people who show us a way of breaking the old molds. If we don't do something different soon, we'll blow ourselves up in another war."

"You're making a break, Jack, but I bet you don't spit on priests and nuns. How's that sort of behavior going to stop us from making wars?"

"Indy, they spat on their own friends. It was an event, you know. They were just dressed like nuns and priests." Shannon stood up. "So you staying around?"

"Just for the first set."

"Listen, you serious about Greece?"

"I don't know, Jack. I've gotta think about it."

He punched Indy on the shoulder. "I've got the feeling

you're going."

The club was crowded by the time the band was mid way through the set. Indy emptied his second glass of

Pernod just as a solo by Shannon came to a close. The green, licorice-tasting drink was taking its effect, and he felt like walkin g. He debated whether he'd go over to the bar for one more drink or leave right away.

He pulled on his leather jacket, and looked for his hat. He peered under the table and on the other chairs. Finally, he reached up and felt it on his head. Yeah, it was definitely time to leave. He stood up and looked toward the stage. Shannon was pattering about the next song.

"I first heard this tune in a place called Dreamland in the Windy City," he said as Indy threaded his way through the tables. The song's by Freddie Keppard's band. Kep doesn't record his music. Says he's afraid people will steal his tunes. He's right because I remembered this one. It goes something like this."

As the song began and Indy headed toward the door, the dadaists looked him over. "Hey, where'd you get that jacket?" one of them called out. "You going on a bombing

mission?" Everyone at the two tables started chanting: Arp, Arp, Arp, Arp. Like a pack of seals, Indy thought. A real swell

bunch.

"You got something against our German brothers?" an other shouted in Indy's face.

"Save it for an old lady or a nun," he snapped, and moved on. As he reached for the door, something hit him in the back; alcohol splattered his neck. He stopped and

turned.

"That's for the Red Baron's mother, ace," a bespectacled man yelled from the table on his left.

"Tzara, Tzara, Tzara, Tzara," the crowd shouted in cadence.

Indy stepped over to the man, jerked the chair out from under him, then grabbed the edge of the table and stood it on end. Drinks cr ashed to the floor. The wine bottle with the candle in it shattered. The flame hissed for a moment, then went out.

Suddenly, the music stopped and everyone in the club turned to see what was going on. No one moved or said a word for a long moment, then a voice boomed from the stage.

"That's my friend, Indiana Jones, all the way from Chicago," Shannon said. "He turned over a table on the South Side one night, but that was his own table. I think he was looking for his hat."

"What an asshole," someone said.

"Hey, do our table, man."

Indy started backing toward the door, but Shannon wasn't finished. "Then another time, this is a true story, he hung George Washington, the first president of the United States, and three of his friends from lampposts at the University of Chicago. Imagine that. A real traditional sort

of guy. Well, he had his reasons. But watch out for him next Bastille Day."

Indy smiled, tipped his hat toward the stage, and left the Jungle. As he walked down the street, he felt the dampness on his neck and hair chilling him. But he ignored it. It was his ow n fault. Why had he let the bastards get the better of him? He could've just ignored them and left. Instead, he'd played their game with them, and they'd got just what they wanteda reaction.

He wandered aimlessly around the Latin Quarter, his thoughts drifting from d adaists to his impending decision.

Maybe it was time for him to leave Paris. He needed a change; he needed something.

He passed a theater with a marquee advertising several serials from The Perils of Pauline. He slowed, and glanced at the poster in the front window, which showed a blonde hanging by her fingertips from a cliff. He smiled. He'd grown up on that stu ff. Pauline never failed to get herself in a bad fix. If she wasn't dangling from an airplane or facing a roaring lo comotive, she was trapped in a snake pit, sinking in quicksand, or chained in a dungeon. He looked at another window displaying coming attractions: The Death Ray, The Poisoned Room and The Blood Crys tals. He would be gone before the serials arrived, he thought. He moved on. Now he knew he was leaving.

He walked for nearly an hour and finally found himself back in Montparnasse and outside a neighborhood dance hall. He knew he'd stopped here because this was Madelaine's favorite bal musette, and one of the first to move from the Luxembourg district. Soon, no doubt, they would all be located in the Latin Quarter. Popular trends, it seemed, always followed the artists by a few years, and the bohemian crow d was well ensconced here, just as the Impressionists of the last century had been in the

Montmartre district.

Inside, dancers were fox-trotting to an accordion player and a violinist. Th e crowd was young, and well behaved compared to the Jungle or any of the boites. Once on the dance floor, the men never even spoke to the women they asked to dance. It was considered uncouth. In some ways, things hadn't changed much since the days of the minuet.

"Indy, I haven't seen you for ages. How are you?" Madelaine said in her high squeaky voice. He turned and she planted a light kiss on his cheek. She was as vibrant and bright-eyed as ever. Her short, bobbed hair curled around her sharply sculptured face, softening it.

"I'm okay. How about you?" He cursed himself for not

noticing her first. He hadn't really expected to see her and didn't particularly want to talk to her. But now he didn't have a choice.

"I'm wonderful, and it's a wonderful night." She tilted her head, listening to the music as a new song began. "Do you want to dance? We can do the java to this one." Her hand slid down his arm and gripped his fingers. She took a couple of steps and her body swayed in front of him.

"No thanks. I'm not up to dancing tonight." Madelaine was her usual exuberant self, the life of the party, and acting as if nothin g had come between them.

"You're no fun, Indy," she pouted.

"I'm going to Greece," he blurted, as though his pend ing trip would make him more interesting to her, worthy of her attention.

"What? Greece? How splendid. Can you take me along? I'd love to see Greece."

Short memory, he thought. "I seem to remember your saying you didn't want to see me again because you thought we were getting too serious. You wanted to be free, I think that's the way you put it."

"Well, I am free. We don't have to get married to see Greece, do we?"

"It's an archaeology field trip to Delphi. I'll be working and I can't take anyone with me."

"Oh, so you need to be free!"

Indy grinned. "You got it."

"Madelaine, there you are," a man called out as he approached them. He glanc ed at Indy. "Jonesy, what a surprise. Give up on the dead languages for the night?" Then he looked at Madelaine again. "We going to dance, love?"

Indy knew the handsome, young British man as Brent, one of Madelaine's acqua intances. Like her, he seemed to do nothing but float from dance hall to dance hall, cafe to cafe with the sa me crowd. There were more like him in the

Latin Quarter every day. If given a choice of spending the evening with Brent and his crowd or being abused

by the dadaists, Indy would be hard pressed to choose.

"Brent, guess what, Indy's going to Greece, to a place called Delphi, and he won't take me with him." Her voice squeaked to a new high.

Brent shrugged. "I'll take you to Greece any time you want, darling. Paris is getting so dreadfully boring. But let's dance right now. My legs won't stop moving."

With that, Madelaine was swept away onto the dance floor. She turned once, waved and laughed, then vanished into the crowd.

Indy felt sick. Why hadn't he just left his past alone? Now more than ever he was anxious to move into the future. "Good-bye, Madela ine," he said without regret, and turned away.

5

Encounters

It was almost noon as Indy pulled on his sneakers and jacket. Normally on a Saturday he would take a book and walk down to the corner for a lunch at the Deux-Magots. But today he was going to stroll over to Le Dome, the cafe where Dorian Belecamus had suggested they meet. She would answer any of his questions, and he would make a decision. It sounded simple. But somehow, he had the feeling that it wasn't going to be simple at all.

He picked his fedora off a hook on the wall. Under it

was a coiled bullwhip, the only decorative item in his two-room abode. The apartment was located above a bakery on the rue Bonapart e, a few blocks from the Sorbonne. One room was a tiny kitchen with an icebox, a gas stove, and a cup board. In the other was a mattress and box spring on the floor, a wooden table with two chairs, and a low bookcase with books strewn on and around it. He had lived in the apartment for two years, and the place looked virtually the same as when he arrived.

He inhaled deeply as he descended the stairs, but the tantalizing smell of fresh bakery goods was faint. Usually, when he left for classes, the smell was so overpowering he stopped for a couple of croissants, which he ate en route to the university. This morning, however, he'd slept late after staying up until three, finishing a new novel called Ulysses.

After he closed the seven-hundred-thirty-page tome and fell asleep, he dreamed of Madelaine and Belecamus, but both women were in D ublin and, not surprisingly, had the same quirks and concerns as James Joyce's Molly Bloom.

As he headed toward Montparnasse, his thoughts returned to the decision he had to make in the next couple of hours. Last night he thought he had made up his mind, but now he wasn't so sure. Of course Greece was an opportunity. But was it practical? Even though he'd get field-work credit for the archaeology course, he'd still have to retake his other courses. In a sense, he would be penalized.

Besides, what was the purpose? Did he really have an interest in pursuing an archaeology career? Or was he just intrigued by Dorian Belecamus? The fact was he had an interest in both, but he doubted that either was a longterm pursuit for him. He'd already taken two years of graduate school in linguistics. How many more would he need to qualify as an archaeologist? It didn't make sense.

When he arrived at Le Dome, he looked around the terrace. In spite of the brisk fall weather, a few tables were occupied, probably by tourists who had heard the French always ate on sidewalks. To accommodate them, glowing coals in a large brasero warmed the air, at least in one corner. Outdoor cafes were fine with him, but only when the weather was moderate.

He stepped inside the cafe and scanned the tables. He was a few minutes early and apparently had arrived ahead of Belecamus. His eyes settled on a man in a tweed coat who was seated at a table by himself. There was a book to one side of him, and he held a pencil in his hand above a pad of paper. He looked familiar, and now he was staring intently at Indy.

He met his gaze, glanced away, then looked back at him. The man was rising from the table, moving toward him, threading his way through the crowded tables. Who

was he, a writer he had met? Probably looking for a sucker to buy him a drink. He was approaching the wrong guy.

"Henry Jones, my God. How are you?"

Indy stared at him for a moment before his face fell into place. "Professor Conrad. What're you doing here?"

Conrad laughed. "Come over, have a seat. It's a long story."

Indy looked around once more for Belecamus, then followed Conrad to his table. "I'm meeting someone for lunch, but she isn't here yet."

"Wait here until she arrives. Or better yet, why don't you both join me?"

As Indy sat down, the waiter appeared and they ordered cups of cafe au lait. His old history professor hadn't changed much in two y

ears. His sandy hair was still combed the same way, his blue eyes remained vibrant and alive, and his musta che still drooped over the sides of his lips. But he seemed less formal somehow, looser, more relaxed, as if he'd found something in Paris that had eluded him in the States.

"It's good to see you," Indy said. "Quite a surprise."

"You know, I've thought about you more than once since you graduated."

Considering the situation the last time he'd seen Conrad, he didn't know whether that was a compliment or not. "So why aren't you teaching?"

"Mulhouse refused to give me tenure, and this past summer my contract wasn't renewed."

"Why not? You're a great teacher. Probably the best I had at the university. "

"Thanks, Jones." He combed his fingers back through his hair. "Mulhouse never gave me a reason." He shrugged. "He wasn't required to. But the scuttlebutt was that he wanted me out ever since that fiasco over Founding Fa thers Day."

No wonder the man had been thinking about him. "I'm

sorry. I guess my silly prank had more repercussions than I'd imagined."

"It's not your fault." He smiled and leaned forward. "Ever since then, I mad e a point of mentioning your particular way of celebrating the day to my classes. I always related the story in a humorous vein, and apparently Mulhouse heard about it."

"So how long have you been here?"

"Just a few days. I'm writing a novel that takes place in Paris during the revolution."

"This is the city for writers. Seems like there's a novelist or two in every cafe."

"I know. I saw Booth Tarkington the other day. Talked to him for a bit." He tapped the book on the table. "Had to pick up one of his books after that. Seventeen. Have you read it?"

"A few years ago." It was about an American boy confronting adolescence; that was all he recalled, except that the kid had a younger sister who ate bread with applesauce. "I've seen James Joyce in here."

"You have?" Conrad looked around as if expecting to see the Irish author. Then his eyes settled on someone approaching the table.

"Henry Jones. There you are." Indy turned and saw Dorian Belecamus strolling up to the table. She wore a blue robe and a white turban. Like Conrad, she'd stepped out of her professorial character. Both men rose to their feet, and Indy introduced the two professors.

"And you can both call me Indy, instead of Henry. That's my father's name."

Belecamus seemed annoyed; she looked about the cafe as if in search of another table.

"It seems the place is full," Conrad said stiffly, reacting to her obvious unease. "You're welcome to join me for lunch."

"Oh, I don't want to intrude," she replied.

"It won't be an intrusion."

Realizing there were no other options, she nodded and took a seat. Indy led the conversation, telling Belecamus about Conrad's his tory course, and the reason he'd lost his job. At first, Belecamus seemed indifferent, but as Conrad filled in details about the hanging heroes episode her interest peaked. She glanced several times at Indy, and asked a couple of pointed questions about the university's reaction and how he dealt with it.

When the waiter walked over, Indy and Belecamus both ordered fresh oysters and pommes frites, and Conrad ordered another cafe au lait.

"In Greece, there would have been no question about it," Belecamus said when the waiter walked away. "You would go to jail if you hung an effigy of any of our leaders. Weren't you concerned about the possible repercussions?"

"Not when it was happening. Only afterward."

She shook her head. "Then why did you do it?"

"I wanted to make a point."

"But you also got a thrill from it, didn't you?"

He shrugged. "I suppose." He'd never really put it into words, but that was exactly how it had been for him.

She laughed. It was a full, throaty sound, delightful. "You have a reckless streak in you. A bit of a rebel." She sat back in her c hair. "Indy." The word seemed to roll off her tongue like music. "I never heard such a name, but I like it. And you can call me Dorian."

Her hand brushed his as she sat forward again, a quick, deliberate touch that he felt all the way to his toes, like a mild electrical shock. It wasn't just the touch itself, but the realization that Lady Ice wasn't quite as impenetrable as he had believed.

Conrad glanced inquisitively between the two of them, but didn't comment. Indy still hadn't said anything about the impending trip to Greece, and Conrad was undoubt-

edly puzzled about their relationship. He told him about her offer. "Delphi. Sounds fascinating." He nodded thoughtfully. "So are you taking the professor up on it?"

"I haven't really decided."

"Why not?" Belecamus asked.

"My field is linguistics, not archaeology. I'd be wasting a semester. I don't know. I'm not sure what I want to do."

She averted her eyes and gazed toward the door as though she wished she weren't there anymore. "You Ameri cans," she said with a sigh. "You're a colony here. Writers, artists, studen ts. You're fortunate. You can live in a foreign country and be right at home with your own compatriots. And yet all you domost of youis complain. You're just an unhappy bunch, lost in a sea of culture."

There was no rancor in her voice; she was just stating the facts as she saw them.

Indy started to disagree, but the waiter appeared with their meals. They ate in silence for a while, a silence that wasn't entirely comfortable. Finally, Belecamus popped an oyster in her mouth, and pointed her fork at Indy. "You say you're interested in archaeology and have been since you were a boy. So why're you studying linguistics?"

"My father taught me languages early. Languages and myths. Some weeks he would only speak French to me, and other weeks it was Spanish or German. I was studying Latin an hour a day after school when I was nine. I knew the Greek myths by the time I was ten. He always said he was preparing me for a career as a scholar, a linguistics scholar."

She sighed and shook her head. "That was your father. What about you? What do you want to do?"

The way she said that bothered him, but only because it mirrored his own fee lings. "Something exciting. I guess I just don't like the idea of spending the rest of my life in libraries, poring over manuscripts of dead languages."

"Then why don't you switch to archaeology?" Conrad asked. "You'll get more variety."

"I don't particularly want to be a student my whole life, either."

Belecamus pushed her plate to the side. "Look, Indy, if the tablet that has been discovered at Delphi is important, and I have the feeling it is, you'll be able to use it as the basis for your Ph.D. With your background, I'd say you can have your doctorate easily in two years. One year of intense study, then your thesis, and you'll be an archaeolo gist. If it doesn't work out, you fall back on linguistics."

That last part didn't appeal to him. If he made a commitment to archaeology, he would stick with it. No falling back. "What if the tablet isn't what you think?"

"Then you choose something else for your thesis," she answered brusquely.

"Don't worry, Indy," Conrad said, "If you really want it, you'll find what you need."

"All right, I'll do it." There. Quick, Simple.

Belecamus smiled. "Good. I thought you would. We're leaving for Athens tomorrow afternoon. Be at my office at one o'clock. Now I must go." She held out a hand to Conrad. "Nice meeting you, and good luck with your writing."

A moment later, the door to the cafe closed behind her.

Indy glanced at Conrad. "So what do you think?"

"I think archaeology is something you'll enjoy, and you'll do very well at it."

"What about Professor Belecamus?"

Conrad threaded and unthreaded his fingers. His reply was slow and measured. "I don't know what it is about her, Indy, but I'd be careful. I guess my sense of her is that she is saying one thing, and thinking another."

"You think I should turn down the offer?"

"I didn't say that. It's just that I sense there's more involved than she's telling."

6

On the Rails

The train rumbled along, rolling through the open countryside of southern Italy. Dorian Belecamus gazed out the window toward the shadowy hills that loomed against the plum-colored horizon. The last of the light tipped them in gold, creating a kind of magic about them. But it wasn't the magic of Greece, she thought. Her homeland was a landscape of dra matic contrasts: bleached white houses that dotted the shores of a sea so blue it made her heart ache, mountains the color of ripened grapes, skies burned by the sun.

Soon, she thought. Her self-imposed exile was almost over. By morning they would arrive in Brindisi, where they would take a ship to the port of Piraeus. From there, they would go overland to Athens, and she would be home.

She turned away from the window, reached up, and switched on the reading light on her side of their private compartment. Acro ss from her, Jones was slumped on his left side, his fedora pulled low over his brow.

She smiled as she watched him. thought. He was going to prove they needed, bright and quick, that he would present a danger

No doubt about it, she helpful. He was just what but not so bright or quick to them. The quake was a

perfect excuse. She and Jones would work at the ruins until the arrangements were made, and the trap set.

She heard a creaking noise; the door had moved. She hadn't closed it tightly , and thought it must be the rush of air down the corridor as someone passed by. But a shadow fell across the crack in the door and she realized someone was standing just outside.

She waited, expecting to hear a tap, and to hear the conductor tell her that dinner was being served. "Who is it?" she demanded when there was no tap.

She took two steps to the door and pulled it open. No one was there. She pee red down the aisle and saw a man in a black suit push his way through the doorway to the next car. She glanced back at Jones, saw he was still asleep, then hurried after the man in the suit.

The next car was second class; rows and rows of passen gers were reading or resting. No one was in the aisle. He

must have sat down. She moved forward, looking at each passenger. She saw a man dressed in black, talking softly to a young girl. A newspaper was spread across his lap and it seemed doubtful that he'd just sat down.

Two rows further, she saw another man dressed in black. He was sleeping. Or did he just look like he was sleeping? He was an elderly man. His breathing was deep and even; his mouth hung open and a spicule of saliva glistened on his lower lip.

She continued down the aisle, where she counted four more men in black. It was useless, and what would she say if she confronted one of them? She would demand to know why he was looking in her compartment; he would deny it, and that would be that.

Then she glimpsed the top of a blond man's head; his face was buried behind an issue of Punch. He wore a white shirt and tie. It was Farnsworth, of course. She should have guessed. He must have taken off his black

coat, but the fool gave himself away with his English magazine. She abruptly turned, and retreated from the car. Farnsworth had been following her around campus for the past month. After sh e'd noticed him and was sure he was watching her, she'd hired an investigator to find out who he was. When she'd found out his name, it was all she needed to know.

Quietly, she slipped back into the compartment. After checking to see that Jones was still asleep, she settled into her seat again